Operation Long Jump (Jock Miles WW2 Adventure Series Book 2)
Page 2
A man’s voice—decidedly Australian—called from the shadows: “This is Oracle. Who goes there?”
Jock Miles, crouched behind a tree trunk, replied, “Oracle, this is Blind Eye.”
The silhouette of a tall, lean man appeared, backlit by the fire, his hand raised in greeting. “Welcome, Blind Eye,” the man said. “Welcome to Papua. Captain Miles, I presume?”
Crouched a few feet from Jock, First Sergeant Patchett grumbled, “Well, it ain’t Doctor Livingstone, that’s for damn sure.”
Jock approached the man, asking, “Commander Shaw?”
As they shook hands before the fire, Trevor Shaw said, “Yes, but my days with His Majesty’s Navy are long behind me. Are you all here safe and sound, Captain?”
“Yes, sir. A little brush with the Jap Navy, but all present and accounted for. I’ve brought half my rifle company…sixty men.”
“Then we’ll have quite a party, won’t we? Come…let’s get you lads tucked away before sunrise. You have much to do, I’m quite sure, before the big show starts.”
Shaw whistled, and half a dozen tribesmen—black men, shirtless and shoeless; some in shorts, some in loin cloths—materialized from the shadows. They all carried knives at their waist. A few took their knives in hand, the steel blades glistening as they caught the fire light. They wasted little time cutting down the tarpaulin and its swinging boom, dunking the canvas at the water’s edge and then using it to smother the signal fire.
Jock’s troopers could only tell one thing for certain about the trek they were on: it was uphill. Sometimes steeply uphill. They were relieved the native guides had eagerly shouldered the heavy boxes of supplies and extra ammunition. In single file, the Americans stumbled along through woods that were a good deal sparser than they had expected. Fewer trees meant less concealment from the enemy. But it was hard to be sure of the terrain; it was so dark each man could barely see the soldier a few feet in front of him. None of their guides—not that old Australian guy or his native porters—seemed the least bit concerned of running into any Japanese. The Americans found it hard to share that confidence. They kept scanning the darkness for the enemy—when they weren’t busy trying not to trip over each other. The urge to keep fingers on the triggers was very strong, but they kept them outside the trigger guards, just as First Sergeant Patchett had instructed. A stumble could lead to an accidental discharge—and the man walking in front of you suddenly dead.
At the front of the column, Jock walked behind Trevor Shaw. The Aussie moved with the brisk and steady gait of a much younger man. He carried no firearm. Jock had yet to see Shaw’s full face, just fleeting, jagged segments cut from the deep shadows of the signal fire. But from what little he had seen, Jock figured Trevor Shaw’s age at not a day less than 70.
They’d been walking for better than an hour when the first gray streaks of pre-dawn began to show the Americans the dense rainforest they were about to enter. Something else became evident in the still-colorless world slowly revealing itself: a gigantic wall seemed to loom before them. They were at the base of one hell of a steep, wide mountain.
Trevor Shaw asked, “Do you know where we are, Captain Miles?”
“We’re about four miles inland, very close to Imatana village, right?”
“That’s correct, Captain. Very good,” Shaw replied. He made a sweeping gesture toward the mountain. “This will be a good jumping off point, I believe, to stage your conquest of the Astrolabe Range. Fascinating name for a mountain range, don’t you think? It means that which takes the stars.”
“I haven’t had the time to give it much thought,” Jock replied, gazing at the ridgeline that formed the mountain’s continuous peak, faintly etched against the brightening sky. “The Jap observation post…where is it up there?”
“At the moment, it’s about two miles down the ridge to the east…and about three thousand feet straight up.”
“So if we’re in the open, any Jap with binoculars can see us.”
“Yes,” Shaw replied, sweeping his arm once again, this time in a panoramic presentation of the rainforest now surrounding them. “But as you can see, Captain, natural concealment here is quite adequate and gets even better the higher up the mountain we go.” He paused to light his pipe before adding, “How do you suppose my little coast watching station has survived in their midst for so long?”
Jock smiled; the old Aussie had a point. “Give us a few minutes to get a perimeter set up,” he said. “Then we can take a better look around.”
Jock and his men could see their surroundings more clearly now. The first rays of sunrise had restored the vibrant colors of the rainforest. Looking back through the trees for a glimpse of the Coral Sea, they were surprised to find themselves only a few hundred feet above its level; after that long walk uphill in the dark, they were sure they had climbed much higher. Worse, they had hardly made a dent in the ascent of the mountain towering before them.
Despite the denseness of the forest, they had formed a fairly wide perimeter some 50 yards across. Those on the perimeter could barely see their comrades in the adjacent fighting holes only 15 feet away. Within that perimeter, 60 American soldiers wondered just how close the Japanese were. They could be just a stone’s throw and you might not see them. The morning light had brought a new sound to their ears. Mixed with the noises of the rainforest—wind in the treetops, the cries of birds, and the occasional bellow of some unseen animal—was the sound of aircraft engines, droning loudly at first as they clambered for altitude and then fading as they headed over the sea.
The men on the perimeter’s north side tensed as the crunch of footsteps sounded on the path from Imatana and then relaxed when they saw it was Trevor Shaw approaching. A small entourage of native bearers, weighted down by a large radio set and its cumbersome accessories, followed the old coast watcher. Jock and First Sergeant Patchett nodded with satisfaction on seeing the radio; its contribution to their mission had saved the Americans from having to manhandle a field radio powerful enough to reach an offshore invasion fleet. That monstrosity would have probably ended up in the water when we jumped off those damned PT boats, anyway, Jock told himself. And not having to lug a big radio around gave us more room for ammo.
“Is that the same radio you talk to Australia with, Commander?” Jock asked.
Shaw chuckled as he replied, “I’m afraid it’s the only wireless I have, Captain. We must treat it like gold.”
As Shaw reached the center of the perimeter, the Americans were startled to see who brought up the rear of the Aussie’s parade: a white woman, tall and sturdy, wearing what looked like a man’s shirt and trousers. Her hair—dark blond, streaked with middle-age gray—was tied back. She carried a double-barreled shotgun slung over her shoulder and conversed rapidly in pidgin with the bearers. Like Shaw, her skin had the tanned, weathered look of someone who had spent many years—perhaps a lifetime—in the tropics.
Shaw shook hands with Jock and Patchett and then beckoned the woman to join them. As she came forward, hand extended, Shaw said, “Gentlemen, this is Virginia Beech, my second in command. Her husband was foreman on my plantation, before the Japanese drove us to the hills.”
“Husband?” Jock asked, looking around, expecting to see another white man appear. “Is he with us, too?”
“No, he’s bloody dead,” Virginia said, her Australian accent sharp as a knife. “Bloody Japs killed him.”
Feeling foolish, Jock said, “I’m sorry, ma’am. I didn’t—”
She scowled and cut him off. “Don’t be sorry, Yank. It’s not your bloody fault. Just get rid of the little bastards. Now where do you want them to set that wireless down?”
“Right over there will be fine,” Jock replied, and then, fumbling for a proper mode of address, added, “uhh…Missus Beech.”
“Ginny, Yank. Call me Ginny.”
She strode off with an assertive air, calling instructions in pidgin to the natives. They were followed promptly and without question.
First Sergeant Patchett cast an admiring leer her way that was none too subtle, either. “Looks like she’d make one hell of a good noncom, too,” he mumbled, “kinda like that Aussie girlfriend of yours, Captain Miles, just older.”
Chapter Three
Day 1
Four men huddled around Jock and the map he spread on the ground. Two lieutenants—each a platoon leader—had joined Trevor Shaw and First Sergeant Patchett for their captain’s briefing. Jock held a copy of the operations order in his hand but didn’t need to refer to it. He knew this plan by heart.
“Before I begin, sir,” Jock said, “I’d like to introduce you to my two platoon leaders. Commander Shaw, this tall drink of water is Lieutenant Bob Wharton. He’s in charge of First Platoon, and does a damned fine job of it.” Jock turned to an almost elfin young officer squatting beside him and continued, “Now, this man here is Lieutenant Theo Papadakis. He leads Second Platoon. Don’t let this little guy fool you…the Mad Greek is a regular tiger, and we’re very glad he’s on our side.”
Jock got down to business. “The day after tomorrow,” he said, “on or about oh-seven-hundred hours, the US Thirty-Second Infantry Division…our division…will begin Operation Long Jump, the first stage of the American and Australian effort to reclaim Papua and New Guinea. It kicks off with our division making amphibious landings in a zone beginning at Barakau, where we just came ashore, and extending down the coast three miles to the east.” He used his bayonet as a pointer to trace the line he had just described on the map. “The division will secure the foothills between the Coral Sea and the Astrolabe Range and advance cross-country to attack the Japanese stronghold at Port Moresby, some twelve miles to the west. The next morning, the Australian Seventh Division will come ashore on the opposite side of Port Moresby here”—he traced a new line on the map—“near the village of Boera. Once all US and Aussie forces have landed, we’ll have the Japs caught in a classic double envelopment. Plus, we should outnumber them two to one.”
Jock noticed Trevor Shaw chuckling to himself. “Something funny, sir?” Jock asked.
“Oh, nothing really, Captain,” Shaw replied. “I was merely amused by General MacArthur’s generosity, assigning the high and dry terrain to you Yanks, while the Aussies get to trudge through swamps and over jagged scrub hills.”
“I’m not privy to the general’s thought processes,” Jock replied, letting his irritation show just a bit, “but it’s obvious the Aussies will have less distance to travel to the objective. Also, they don’t even come ashore until we Yanks have fully captured the Japs’ attention. They should encounter much less resistance than we will. That sounds pretty generous to me.”
Shaw thought that over for a moment. Finally, he asked, “I suppose there’s a reason the two forces are not being landed simultaneously?”
“That one’s pretty simple to answer, Commander. There aren’t enough landing craft to go around. After they drop off the Yanks, they’ll have to regroup and do the Aussies.”
Trevor Shaw threw up his hands in a gesture of friendly surrender. “Ahh, I see. I’m not trying to play the curmudgeon, Captain, just trying to understand the plan. Please continue.”
“No problem,” Jock said. “Now, let’s review our role in all this. We know from the intel Commander Shaw has provided that there’s a Jap OP…an observation post…on Astrolabe. They can see everything from up there…the sea approaches, the landing beaches, and that twelve miles of ground between the beaches and Port Moresby. They could follow our every move and direct Japanese ground and air units against us with impunity. You have a question, Lieutenant?”
Theo Papadakis was so agitated his question practically burst out of him. “Yeah, but Captain…any friggin’ plane or rowboat could spill the beans on an invasion fleet, couldn’t they?”
“Of course, Lieutenant…it’s going to be no secret there’s an invasion fleet offshore once the sun comes up. But whoever holds that high ground has a big advantage. They can observe opposing ground forces and report their movements in continuous detail, even adjusting artillery fire without revealing themselves.”
Papadakis wasn’t convinced yet. “Ain’t the Jap Navy supposed to be real tough? What if they jump the invasion fleet and sink the whole mess of them?”
Jock replied, “Then we’d have to figure out a way to get our sweet asses out of here. But let’s let Commander Shaw fill us in on what to expect from the Jap Navy.”
“True, the Japanese Navy is quite strong,” Shaw began, “but not so much in the waters south of Papua. It’s too close to Australia. The American and Aussie Air Forces based on Cape York have been giving them quite a beating lately when they show their faces in daylight. I believe the term you Yanks fancy is air superiority. But like all Japanese outposts in the southwest Pacific, they can only supply their garrison at Port Moresby by sea…and they’ve been reduced to doing that mainly at night, when the threat of air attack is much less.”
Theo Papadakis was still brimming with questions. “You mean they can’t truck supplies overland from the north coast?”
Shaw shook his head and said, “My good man, you haven’t gotten much of a glimpse of the Owen Stanley Range yet, have you?”
Papadakis replied only with a look of confusion.
“This mountain ridge you see before you,” Shaw said, “the Astrolabe Range…it’s a piker compared to the Owen Stanleys that lie beyond. There are no roads across them, just incredibly difficult foot trails, very steep and usually muddy from the incessant rain, as the Aussie diggers who fled from the north coast know all too well. In fact, there are no roads connecting any of the major settlements on Papua and New Guinea. Each outpost is an island unto itself. The only practical way to reach them is by air or sea.”
Stubbornly defiant, Papadakis asked, “If that OP up on that mountain is so friggin’ great, are we so sure they didn’t see us land in those PT boats? Especially with that signal fire right there, lighting us up. They could be beating the bushes for us right now.”
“Lieutenant,” Shaw replied with great patience, “a signal fire at night looks no different to those on the mountain than any number of fires in the native villages. That, of course, assumes the Japs up there were even awake. They’ve become quite bored and lackadaisical…there’s been little for them to do on occupation duty but sit and wait.”
Papadakis shook his head. “It still doesn’t add up,” he said. “Why the hell doesn’t the Air Force just bomb that OP?”
“Oh, come on, Lieutenant,” Jock said, his patience wearing thin. “That would be like using a sledgehammer to remove a splinter. A lot of effort for no result.”
Lieutenant Bob Wharton chimed in, his tone lacking Papadakis’s emotion but his questioning just as incisive. “Begging your pardon, Captain…I don’t mean to get ahead of your briefing…but Commander, how do you come to know all this about the Japs on the mountain? And how many of them are up there, anyway?”
Jock Miles and Melvin Patchett both raised an eyebrow. The lieutenant had beaten them to the question each was about to ask. They leaned in closer to the Aussie; they were dying to hear his answer.
Shaw’s voice dropped as if sharing a great secret. “I have a spy in their midst, gentlemen. Just as natives will serve as your helpers…willingly, I might add…they serve as helpers for the Japanese too. Not so willingly, of course, but they have little choice—”
“We know how that works,” Jock interrupted. “We saw the song and dance the blacks on Cape York had to do to cooperate with the Japs…and stay alive.”
With a mix of surprise and respect, Shaw asked, “You fought the Japanese on Cape York, Captain?”
“Yeah, a bunch of us here did.”
“How many Japanese actually set foot in Australia?”
“It wasn’t much…looked to be a regiment. Th
ey were trying to build airfields to bomb the east coast cities all the way down to Brisbane. They thought they could bluff Canberra into surrendering.”
“Then my hat is off to you, Captain Miles, for the sound thrashing you gave them. I heard many tales of those Japanese soldiers straggling back to Port Moresby. They were a badly beaten lot. But let’s get back to the lieutenant’s excellent question. As I said, I have a native spy in their midst. His name is Gabriel Lakai, and he is quite a clever young lad. He speaks the King’s English fluently and has already learned quite a bit of Japanese. They use him as a porter, a messenger, an interpreter with the other natives…whatever is necessary, and as a result, he spends a good deal of time at the OP and is quite familiar with its operation. He tells me there are never more than a dozen men there. A few…the actual observers…are Army and Navy officers. The rest handle communications and housekeeping.”
“How do they communicate with Port Moresby?” Jock asked.
“Telephone,” Shaw replied. “They ran a landline down the mountain and into their headquarters in the town.”
“Just one line?” Patchett asked. “No backup?”
“Just one. They have a small wireless set as well, but rarely use it for communications. Mostly, they listen to music on the shortwave.”
“Radio Tokyo, I’ll bet,” First Sergeant Patchett said.
“I’m told they listen to anything but,” Shaw replied.
“What about patrols?” Jock asked. “What’re the chances of running into Japs between here and the OP?”
“Very slim, Captain,” Shaw replied. “Other than when the watch at the OP is being changed, you’ll be hard-pressed to find any Japanese wandering around outside of Port Moresby. They simply don’t have enough manpower to do anything but garrison their key bases…and sparsely, at that. As you noted, only one Japanese division defends the port facilities and airfield of Port Moresby. We estimate their strength at barely fifteen thousand men.”